Integer
by chutzpah
Summary: John only smokes because Bobby hates it and Rogue secretly likes it.


Disclaimer: I don't own the X-men movies or comic book franchise and I don't own the characters. No monetary profit is being made. Alas!

**Integer**

John's sitting two steps behind Rogue and Bobby, not right behind them but along the step a bit, so that if he tilts his head just right he can look down Rogue's top and glimpse blue lace and pale skin. John considers himself a cleavage connoisseur and, even by his exacting standards, Rogue has nice breasts. Some of that's probably to do with the fact that skin, on Rogue, is rarely seen, so every inch, every centimetre, every brief glimpse acquires a wholly different value to, say, Jubilee and her tiny shorts and midriff-baring tops.

Not that there's anything wrong with tiny shorts and midriff-baring tops, John allows generously. He certainly appreciates it when Jubilee wears them and he still has the bruise on his ribs from the last time he told her that.

He wonders how long it'll take Rogue to cotton onto the fact that he's only been silent for so long because he's staring at her breasts. If Bobby weren't so wrapped up in her, he probably would have guessed already. John prides himself on being unpredictable but he knows that even with that, this length of silence is unusual for him.

Blame it on Rogue and her exceptionally nice breasts.

He digs around in his pockets, finds the battered packet of Lucky Strikes and his lighter and fires one up. The smoke burns his lungs and it's an effort not to cough, but John manages it masterfully. His eyes water.

"Dude," says Bobby, looking around at John over his shoulder. "That's disgusting. And I'm pretty sure we're not supposed to smoke on school premises."

"Professor Logan does." John points out, blowing smoke out to the side. It looks cool. He knows it looks cool, because he wouldn't be doing it if it didn't. He sticks the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and says around it, "So bite me."

Rogue is looking at him too, gloved hands resting in her lap. Bobby and Rogue don't hold hands together in front of him, not when they remember not to, and John is bitterly aware of their tactful consideration of his feelings.

"I didn't think you smoked," she says. John likes her voice, soft tones and Southern accent. He likes the smokiness of it. There's a tiny smile lurking at the corner of her mouth and she's biting it down, maybe because of Bobby, maybe because of him. It's hard to tell with Rogue.

"I'm a man of mystery, darlin'," he tells her, affecting Wolverine's growling tones. It's an appalling imitation and that tiny grin of hers widens, lights up those dark eyes of hers before she manages to catch it and stifle it back to its corner again.

She gives him a reproving look instead. "And lung cancer?"

John blows the smoke at her deliberately and the breeze catches some of it. She doesn't cough, though, just waves a gloved hand at it and makes a face at him.

"Charming, St. John," she drawls. "Really charming."

"_Marie_." he retorts.

Bobby has that look like he's only just managing to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. John wishes he wouldn't be so restrained. As long as the wind doesn't change, a little eye-rolling never hurt anyone.

"It won't look so cool when you're fifty three and confined to a hospital bed hacking out your lungs," Bobby says. John pulls a horrible, immature face at him and this time Bobby does roll his eyes.

John, 1. Bobby, 0.

"How little you know me, Iceman," says John mournfully. "I don't _need_ it to look cool. I _am_ cool. I'm the Cool Machine. Although, technically, I guess that's you." He grins, smoke leaking out of his mouth with every syllable, lungs aching, burning, but it's worth it.

The truth is, he only smokes because Bobby hates it and Rogue secretly likes it. He reckons it's something to do with that "special bond" she and that Professor Logan have going on.

It's worth it because even though he's still behind them, they're looking at him, both of them, and he's back on their radar, back in their world with them. They're three again now, not just two plus one, and John doesn't pay much attention in maths class but he knows that three is an integer and a prime number, divisible only by itself and one, and that seems a much safer bet than anything else. It gives them a kind of magic, unbreakable by anything from outside, and John's been watching the news lately and he thinks that might be pretty important all too soon.

So he grins, cocky and self-assured, and says, "Face it, Iceman, you just wish you looked as good as me."

"Oh yes," Bobby says dryly, "I desperately want to be short and smell like an ashtray."

"_Hey_," John says indignantly, "I'm not _short_, okay--"

"It's all the smoking," Rogue puts in, eyes sparkling, and damn but she's pretty like this, smirking and sure of herself in a way that John knows that he and Bobby helped her to become. "It stunts your growth."

John blinks. "Seriously?"

Rogue nods gravely, but there's that grin and that look in her eyes, like she knows something about John that he doesn't.

He thinks maybe Rogue understands a bit about the power of three and the importance of being undivided.

Or maybe she's just guessed that he was only quiet for so long because he was looking down her top. John guesses it's probably the latter, but it's hard to be sure. Rogue's got that streak of white in her hair, outward marker of the secrets and scars she carries on her soul.

He thinks, _that's alright. You're ours now. Ain't nobody gonna mess with you unless they're wanna get fried and frozen in that order._ He says, "You're such a sucky liar, Rogue."

"Here," Bobby says, "I'm gonna help you to do the right thing, John," and before John can lean away, Bobby's leant over and breathed wintry cold air over the tip of his cigarette.

It dies, just like that, and John's fingertips are suddenly frozen in the middle of July.

"_Thanks_, Drake," he says sarcastically, folding his hands up inside his sleeves to try to warm them back up. "You're a real pal."

And then, because he knows how it'll look to anyone else who comes along-- that'll it'll look like he's just tagging along with Rogue and Bobby again, getting in the way, trailing along behind them, and that they'll fail to understand exactly how things work in this little group of three-- he gets up and pushes his way between them, sits down with his left arm around Rogue and his frozen left hand in her pocket despite her protests and automatic wary tension, and he sticks his frozen right hand on the back of Bobby's neck, just because if his hands are cold it's Iceman's fault and John believes in that old adage about reaping what you sow when it suits him to do so.

And he does it as well because Rogue is slight and warm against his side and her hair smells clean and like vanilla and lemon, and because Bobby, although he protests and squirms and shoves John in his already bruised ribs, doesn't actually fling John's hand off of his neck.

He does it, in short, because they're three, and maybe he does it a little because this gives him an even better angle to ogle Rogue's breasts, but he guesses she knows that already and she's still not moving away.

They get it, the three of them, even if nobody else does.


End file.
